Vanity Fair.

I shiver as I remember the conscious thoughts that were running through my mind during the dream. They weren't exactly polite.

 At breakfast I catch my mother's glances in my direction. Her long, curly chestnut hair covered most of her face as she bent over her food, but I knew I was meant to see them. As usual, I ignored them purposefully. In fact, I ignored her. She caught me on my out of the door to school;

"Faye, could I talk to you for a minute please?"

I sighed at the business-like tone that edged her voice. Dropping my bag in the hallway, I shufled into the living room. I knew what was going to come next. She sat down on the sofa opposite to me with her legs crossed and her lips pursed. When she opened her mouth to speak, I cut her off quickly.

"I'm not getting the surgery, Mum."

Her eyes widened. She was always suprised, even though I gave her the same answer each and every time.

"But- "

"No, I don't want it, and I don't need it. I'm happy as I am."

She looked at me with obvious concern, and probably for my mental health. She just couldn't see why I liked the scars. That I wasn't ashamed of them. Mum was the kind of person who worried what other people thought of her. I was totally the opposite to her in that respect; more like Dad. He didn't see the need in pandering to other people's feelings and opinions of him, he figured if someone liked you, it was because what you saw was what you got. This was another reason I didn't want the surgery. I was too stubborn to care about what others thought about the circular scars surrounding my bright green eyes. I got on better with Dad than I did with Mum, and this wasn't helped by the fact that he supported me in not having any reconstructive surgery. It was a shame that he wasn't around to support me in body as well as spirit. He lived in Spain now, with his new girlfriend.

"But, love it you make you feel better about your looks. What would the boys think about those ugly scars? It'd probably turn them off, and you're such a lovely girl, and you used to be so pretty! I don't want people treatingmy daughter like a freak, imagine how that would make me look. I hear others talking about you, you know, how it's  . . . where are you going?"

"School." I snapped back at her, and left without another word.

The End

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